


Attar

by miarr



Category: Aladdin: The Animated Series
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miarr/pseuds/miarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sighed. It would be nice if Mozenrath <i>changed</i> his style, for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lukadron](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lukadron).



> One-quarter of this fic is due to Rule 34, and the other three-quarters belong to [lukadron](http://lukadron.livejournal.com), who requested it and to whom it is dedicated. Thanks to [kokanshu](http://kokanshu.livejournal.com) for the beta, and for not disowning me in the process.
> 
> I hereby disclaim all responsibility for psychological trauma, ruined childhoods, et cet.

It was depressing, thought Aladdin, how predictable certain aspects of his life were. Not that he didn’t like routine—waking up next to Jasmine every morning was a lot better than running in the streets—but sometimes he could do with a change of pace. Like when it came to Mozenrath. Sooner or later, the guy was bound to appear, but Aladdin wished that for once in his life he’d do something unexpected. Like not be evil. Or at least vary his plans for world conquest a bit.

No such luck. The usual scheme seemed to be in full swing, with everyone working their usual roles. Genie was trapped in a crystal somewhere, probably all the way at the other end of Mozenrath’s cursed palace. Jasmine, together with Iago and Abu, was nowhere to be seen—Aladdin was privately counting on her for some sort of rescue later on. Meanwhile, he was tied up at Mozenrath’s command: immobilized at the wrists and ankles, suspended in midair from some great plant, the vines curling around his limbs and holding him in place. It was big and sturdy, with enormous colourful flowers blooming along the stems, petals quivering in the still air. One blossom was stuck right in his face, with the stamens waving under his nose and making him want to sneeze. It was a deep, verdant blue, streaked with yellow: totally incongruous with desert flora, but very much Mozenrath’s style.

He sighed. It would be nice if Mozenrath _changed_ his style, for once.

There were a couple of zombies, shambling in the adjoining rooms outside, and atmospheric lighting consisting of numerous wall torches, flickering with magical blue fire. The desert night was supposed to be freezing, but Mozenrath’s castle was just cool enough to make Aladdin’s skin break out in goosebumps. In all his visits here—and there’d been a lot—the air was dank and a bit musty, the type you find in very old tombs. Right now the flowers were giving off a nice smell to cover for the staleness, which was a relief, if very odd on his nose. Aladdin tried to inhale, and promptly sneezed.

“Not allergic, I hope? It would be a waste if my stunningly masterful plan went to waste just because you can’t handle a little flower pollen, Prince.”

Mozenrath stood on the marble floor of his chamber hall, resplendent in his usual clothes and a smirk, staring up at Aladdin with one eyebrow perfectly arched. Xerxes, ever-present, curled around his ankles and then slithered up to rest on his shoulder. They seemed pretty happy with the way things were going so far.

Aladdin tried to rub his nose, ineffectually, and ended up making a face at Mozenrath, nostrils tingling. “I thought you called me ‘Streetrat’?”

Mozenrath shrugged gracefully, a fluid motion of his shoulders which somehow transferred itself to his hands, fluttering in the air like a pair of irritable birds. “It’s just us here, Prince; there’s no need to stick to formalities. Surely you don’t object? A royal title befits you more, no matter your humble roots. Although I can easily revert back if you insist.”

Aladdin certainly didn’t like the sound of that. _Befits me more?_ Mozenrath had a tendency to start flattering only if he was about to get particularly nasty right after. Aladdin felt the pit of his stomach drop ominously, and hang around in the vicinity of his toes. “What do you want?”

“Just like that? Not a word about the new décor, the exotic floral arrangement? For your information, it took an incredible amount of magic to adjust this rare beauty to our desert climate. I hope you appreciate the time and effort I exerted in order to transport it here, just for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Aladdin said, unsmiling. “I couldn’t be more flattered.”

“It’s not just any flower, either.” Mozenrath seemed entirely too pleased with himself over this development, like a parent extolling the virtues of his child. “Don’t you want to know what it does?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“Quite right, Prince, as ever. You know, you’ve got a sharp mind, when it’s not being squandered mooning over that Jasmine girl.”

“That ‘Jasmine girl’ happens to be my wife,” Aladdin pointed out. “You’ll have to forgive me for wanting to maintain a happy marriage.”

“We’ve all got our foibles,” Mozenrath waved a dismissive hand, as though successful matrimony was some sort of negligible character flaw. “You’ll come around eventually, I’m sure of it.”

_Come around to what?_ Aladdin wanted to ask, but figured he’d rather not know the answer. Instead he drawled: “So meanwhile, as long as I’m hanging around, what’s the evil plan for today?”

“Hanging around! Pffbt.” Xerxes snickered, hissing a bit, and Mozenrath shot him an annoyed glare. Probably mad at him for laughing at other people’s jokes. Aladdin allowed himself to feel a touch smug.

“I’ve been thinking,” Mozenrath said pointedly, drawing the focus back to himself. “About delayed gratification.” At Aladdin’s blank look, he sighed. “Life is short! Especially mine. And sure, one day you might _eventually_ realize my staggering genius and beg to join my side as supreme co-ruler of the known world—” Xerxes waggled his eel-brows at Aladdin hopefully, as if to say _now’s the time_, “—but who knows when that will happen? I might even be dead by then.”

He shot Aladdin a sharp look. “Meanwhile you’re off gallivanting with your princess, a couple of stuffed animals, and a Genie with more belly than brains. Why should I wait around until you come to your rightful senses?” The question was clearly rhetorical; Aladdin kept his mouth shut, letting Mozenrath vent. “That could take _ages_. And the thing about delayed gratification, really.” Mozenrath snapped his fingers. “It’s just not worth it.”

Just like that, without warning or preparation, the flowers buds all contracted and sprayed a cloud of heady pollen, like synchronized bottles of perfume all being squeezed at once. Aladdin coughed and tried to suck in a breath, only to get a mouthful of the stuff, completely enveloped by a mist of sickly-sweet floral smell. The blossom under his nose let out a spray just like all the others, and he got a dose straight to his face, the pollen settling on his hair and eyelashes and all over his shoulders. In fact, the pollen got _everywhere_, seeping through his clothes with unnatural ease and covering his skin like a delicate film of dust.

“Ugh! What in blazes?”

“Language, Prince,” Mozenrath chided idly, seemingly unaffected by the explosion of dander. Aladdin distantly heard him addressing Xerxes: “Go on, my friend; this substance is unhealthy for you. Step outside and I’ll be with you momentarily, as soon as I finish dealing with our guest.” Just like Mozenrath, Aladdin thought in a haze—polite and yet crazy as a snake’s armpit.

The floral smell, previously subtle and pleasant, now filled the room completely, pervasive like rotten fruit. It reminded Aladdin of Agrabah’s blooming gardens at the cusp of spring, when the flowers curled down lazy petals and the dates from the marketplace were full and ripe. In the shadows of the palace, Jasmine would feed him the season’s first pickings, fingers gentle against his lips, the taste exploding on his tongue, sweet and moist...

Aladdin blinked his eyes, burning with pollen, and tried to re-orient himself. Everywhere the pollen touched he felt a strange tingling, running in shivers all over his skin. His vest weighed heavily on his skin, oppressive and luxurious at the same time. It wasn’t unpleasant, just persistent, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Actually, it felt _very_ pleasant. Aladdin drew in another breath, coughing only slightly on the pollen, and felt his heartbeat speed up. He had no idea what this was, but it was making him hypersensitive, making his stomach tighten and his breath quicken and a feeling of warmth coil itself inside him, deep in the crux of his pelvis, making him feel good, great, _fantastic_...

“What is this?” Aladdin managed raggedly, panting for breath, hands clenching and unclenching in his bonds. Originally he’d struggled, more or less, trying to free himself of the vines; now he was just moving, letting them rub against his skin and curl around his calves. It felt so _good_. “W-What have you done?”

“Oh, Aladdin,” Mozenrath purred, looking up at him with a gleam in his eye like Iago got when he was looking at a particularly shiny piece of jewellery. “I have no doubt you’ll find out for yourself in very short order.”

Which was a totally unhelpful thing to say, but even Mozenrath’s _voice_ was enough to send a shudder through him, making him writhe in the web of supporting vines, a canopy of flower petals brushing his face. He felt overheated, dizzy, like coming into the palace after a long day in the sands, burning and parched with sunstroke. Except he wasn’t parched, his mouth was open, lips covered with pollen. He licked at them experimentally, since they felt strange, and discovered it was really good. He did it again, then bit his lower lip. His hips jerked slightly.

“If you could see yourself,” Mozenrath’s voice whispered in his ear, and Aladdin was startled to discover it no longer came from below: the vines had lengthened while keeping him steady, stretching all the way to the ground. His toes just barely touched the floor, putting him at face level with Mozenrath. Who was very, very close by. “A picture is worth a thousand words. But I would gladly give you a thousand words; a million, if you like.” He leaned closer, drawing a thin finger down Aladdin’s cheek, long fingernail tickling the skin.

Aladdin tried not to squirm under the touch, which wasn’t so much repulsive as simply _maddening_. He very resolutely did not whimper in an unmanly fashion.

“Confused,” Mozenrath crooned, running a thumb across Aladdin’s chin; his lower lip, swollen from being worried. “Debauched.” One hand curled around the nape of Aladdin’s neck, gloved fingers twining in his hair, massaging his scalp. “Alone. Unwitting. _Helpless_.” His voice turned sibilant, almost hissing the word, and Aladdin was suddenly very aware of their positions. He was hanging from his wrists, suspended in a net of vines which curled up his calves and pressed against the backs of his knees. Mozenrath, on the other hand, was standing on his own two feet, unfettered by shrubbery, and looked very much in control of the situation.

“I, what’s,” Aladdin started, vaguely protesting these blatantly unequal power dynamics, but stuttered to a halt when Mozenrath pressed a thumb against his lips. Then Mozenrath was pushing up, _in_, and Aladdin couldn’t help but open his mouth, taking in the finger, mouth wet and alive with that strange tingling sensation, half-moaning when Mozenrath scraped the roof of his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut, as if bearing a mind of their own, but he didn’t need sight to know Mozenrath was smiling. Saliva pooled up at the corners of his lips, shiny-slick, slow in comparison to his quickened breaths.

When Mozenrath said, “In all truth, Aladdin, you look positively _shameless_,” Aladdin didn’t have the sense to protest, much less to feel bad about it. Quite the opposite. He felt alive and focused and amazing. He wanted someone to touch him. He _wanted_.

Then the vines were moving over his skin, as if they’d heard his thoughts, and Aladdin arched into their touch, making small moaning sounds. Every nerve in his body was singing, flaring at the touch, and the vines played them like flutes, reaching everywhere. They slithered along the insides of his arms, across his ribs, up the lean muscles of his thighs. One slipped beneath his wide belt, easy as breathing, and was joined by another, and another, until the belt was just cloth falling off his hips, loosened by a dozen prying fingers. Lower down, then, and the vines slipped beneath his trousers, lost in the enveloping folds of fabric but hot against his skin, inexorable—

“_Hey,_” Aladdin choked as they curled around his cock, one delicate vine circling the tip, another wending further down, graceful as a living snake. He tried to say more, but Mozenrath’s thumb in his mouth stopped him, caused him to gag reflexively.

“Don’t talk,” Mozenrath advised him, lips brushing against the outer corner of his eye, breath cool against his skin, like the dank air of his castle. “However, feel free to make other sounds at your leisure.”

And Aladdin did: he moaned when the vines curled around his nipples and up to circle his neck, when they twined in his hair. He panted when they pulled at his cock; a slow, lazy pace, building to a molten-hot urgency in the pit of his stomach. He bit down on Mozenrath’s thumb, stammering half-formed curses, and tried not to buck up against Mozenrath’s hips when more vines pulled his pants down and Mozenrath palmed his cock, clever fingers cupping his balls, rough and brazen and oh _gods_ that glove—

He was rolling his hips by now, rough and needy and graceless, panting into the glossy petals. Then one vine slid down his hips, cool against the curves of his ass, and it all stopped: Aladdin abruptly went stiff-rigid and hush-silent, and made no sound at all.

Mozenrath smirked, pressing close at the hips and shoulders, his fingers wet with Aladdin’s spit. “What’s the matter, Prince? You’ve been most accommodating so far. Why not _accommodate_ a little more?”

“I don’t—” Aladdin begged, voice breaking over the second word, but Mozenrath pressed a thumb on his tongue, silencing him.

“I understand that you’re uneasy,” he said. “It’s a very natural reaction. Let me provide some incitement. Pay attention, Prince: this is how you’ll feel if you do everything I say and don’t resist my orders. Like _this_.”

And suddenly a bright spot inside of Aladdin flared up, like a fire being stoked, unexpected—he gave a hoarse half-yell and strained against the bonds, cock jerking, leaking at the tip, arousal burning in him hot and white. It was an unfamiliar sensation, addictive; he wanted more, _much_ more, but had no idea what Mozenrath had done. Aladdin belated realized he was keening, high and weak in his throat, ass clenching instinctively as the vine circled his opening.

Mozenrath said, “Yes. _This_ is how you should be, Aladdin, _this_ is what we can be together.”

Aladdin would have responded, except he was already humping Mozenrath’s hip, smearing pre-come on the rich cloth of his robe, and rather beyond words. Then the vine ventured inside, tentatively, and the discomfort returned sevenfold as his ass muscles clamped down on the intrusion. Aladdin felt himself trying to shy away, like a newly-broken horse: he wanted the thing gone, he wanted it _out_.

“Relax,” Mozenrath purred in his ear, and perhaps he used a touch of magic, because suddenly Aladdin felt his muscles unwind at the sound of his voice, going easy and pliant, as though drugged. The vine pressed further in, and further, and Aladdin was halved down the middle, laid open and bare. It was weird and more than slightly uncomfortable, until the vine angled up, questing, and suddenly that flaring sensation came by again and it was _great_. Aladdin gasped, hips jerking, his toes curling against the floor. Mozenrath grinned against his cheek.

“Now you feel it,” he said, and withdrew his thumb from Aladdin’s mouth, only to kiss him.

“Mmph—” Aladdin didn’t know what he would have said if he could, but then Mozenrath’s tongue was in his mouth, curling slow-sweet, and his fingers were smearing spit against Aladdin’s skin, streaking the pollen. The vine was moving in him; slow, deep thrusts, guided by Mozenrath’s mind, hitting him exactly in that spot. He tried to move, to reciprocate, but the rest of the plant had him in an iron grip, not letting him budge an inch.

Mozenrath, at his front, was fingering his groin, tracing the creases of his inner thighs, toeing the line between too-rough and pleasurable with the coarse texture of his glove. Two smaller vines were doing the delicate work of jerking him off, wrapped around his cock and rubbing that spot just underneath the head. Aladdin gasped into Mozenrath’s mouth every time the vine thrust into him, pulled from one end and tugged from the other, and Mozenrath swallowed up his noises, drinking deep, as though Aladdin were honeyed wine. Something sweet and rare, something to savour.

It was all too much, too _alive_, tingling with wonderful sensation, breathless-fast and building up to a crescendo. Aladdin felt the clenching of his gut and knew he was close, on the very brink of orgasm. He tried, one last time, to grasp at composure, at help, anything—but all he could smell was the sickly-sweet flowers and the pollen on his skin.

Mozenrath curved sharp nails against his temple, the planes of his cheeks, and bit his tongue roughly. _Don’t hold back._ It was the almost a request, as though Mozenrath were cajoling him to let go, to give up this one victory. _Don’t hold back, please._ Aladdin came with a jerk of his hips and a muffled gasp, ass tight around the vine and his blood in Mozenrath’s mouth.

“You see,” Mozenrath whispered against his lips, laughing softly. His voice was husky, rich, and yet it shook slightly on the final syllables. Breathless, more than a little thrilled. “Denying yourself satisfaction just isn’t worth it.”

“I’m not, I.” Aladdin swallowed down his shaking voice; tried again. “I didn’t want this. I don’t want _you_. You’re Mozenrath, I’m Aladdin. We’re not compatible.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mozenrath smiled, lips full and wet from kisses. In the blue torchlight, he looked like a mirage from the sands, death-white skin and his hair a dark halo around his face. “When we’re in private like this, I think I’ll just call you _Prince_.”


End file.
